


Can't Keep it Inside

by loyaldirectioner



Category: British Actor RPF, Sherlock (TV) RPF
Genre: Agony, Alcohol Abuse, Death, F/M, Will Add More Later, alcoholic, anguish, idk what else
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-30
Updated: 2015-01-30
Packaged: 2018-03-09 18:39:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3260243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loyaldirectioner/pseuds/loyaldirectioner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With a washed up life and a hard abuse of alcohol, you could say that Benedict Cumberbatch is not exactly the same successful businessman he used to be. But when a mysterious woman enters his life, he’s forced to let his past decide his future, or let it dissolve away.</p><p>[Can’t Keep it Inside Lyrics]<br/>Well I’ve never been a man of many words<br/>And there’s nothing I could say that you haven’t heard<br/>But I’ll sing you love songs ‘til the day I die<br/>The way I’m feeling<br/>I can’t keep it inside</p><p>I’ll sing you a sweet serenade whenever you’re feeling sad<br/>And a lullaby each night before you go to bed<br/>I’ll sing to you for the rest of your life<br/>The way I’m feeling<br/>I can’t keep it inside<br/>No I can’t keep it inside</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't Keep it Inside

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Cumberfic so stay with me and please tell me what you think!! Also the OFC is actually an OFC I just love Keira's name so that's why. Kay thanks for reading!

**  
Ben headed to the kitchen stepping over the crushed beer bottles that he’d smashed only last night. If taken the time, one could find at least six bottle tops distinctively placed in different parts of the living room, revealing the entire six-pack he had absorbed in an entire night. On the walls, there were slanted pictures carefully placed into frames depicting a once beautiful family—a beautiful wife with mid-length brown hair and a small boy who resembled his father quite a lot. The picture had begun to fade, an equal representation of the goal Ben attempted to achieve every night of his life.

Searching in his cupboard for anything to numb the pounding pain in his head and the nauseous feeling in his stomach, he slammed the door of it violently and cursed under his breath. He had turned up nothing and he would have to go to work with this cursed headache. Just thinking about his job made his head hurt worse. Because of the accident, Ben hadn’t felt that he was capable of returning to his old job at the marketing firm, and instead remained unemployed until he realized that the small check that he received every month was not sufficient to pay rent, utilities, food, and other necessities. Therefore made the cautious choice to move out of his condo in Los Angeles, California and into a one-bedroom flat of Hammersmith, London.

His salary was significantly smaller than what he had originally made in the States. His used to be suit-and-tie attire that was worn professionally at his almost everyday business meeting was replaced with a now less embellishing postman uniform—shorts that came just above the bottom of his knee and an ironed down collar shirt. The rest of his uniform that sometimes included a neon vest was optional but strongly encouraged.

Timothy and Wanda had both supported and understood why Ben had chosen to come back from California. They had offered to help him there until he got back on his feet but was told that the memory of living in the condo was too much to bear. So they helped by only helping when Ben deemed it necessary, and Wanda tried her best to bring him a nice home cooked meal when she could.

Ben, still suffering from his hangover, reminisced on his new life while he put on his uniform. It had been like this for almost a year, and his drunkenness only worsened the situation. This would be his third time being late, in a week. His boss would be furious and he would apologize and ensure that it would not happen again, but it was inevitable. There was no way he could drink every night and be able to work everyday but one. His phone rang and he knew exactly who it was. Reluctantly he answered, “Hello.”

“Benedict, where are you? You’re two hours late! Get your arse down here!” His boss hung up in his face.

Ben sighed again, grabbed his house keys, and walked out of his flat, locking the door.

**

“Since you’re two hours late,” his boss, Gary, began before saying hello, “you’re going to have to pick up the pace. You know there are some people who want their mail in the morning!”

Ben nodded, “I understand. I’ll get right on it, boss.” He started to walk away, but Gary grabbed his arm.

“You can’t keep doing this Cumberbatch. This has to end.” With that, he walked away, leaving Ben to start on his dreaded job.

He quickly walked to the back of the building to go outside. He found his numbered bicycle, packed his mail in the compartment behind it, and started off. The sun shone only a little, and the wind blew revealing that it was going to be a windy day. His first stop was to Mr. Higgins, a grumpy old man who lived alone, and who surely waited on his mail at the same time everyday.

“Well, Benedict, it’s about time you got here! What took so long?” the old man stated. His eyebrows were furrowed together showing his distaste for such a late visit. Ben was sure that he was the only visitor the man got regularly. If he weren’t so grumpy and mean, maybe he’d have visitors on a regular basis, Benedict thought.

“Sorry, Mr. Higgins. Running a bit late today. Here’s your mail.” Mr. Higgins almost snatched it out of his hand.

“I expect to sit on my porch everyday, drink my tea, play a little solitaire, and read my mail. I usually prefer to read my mail in the morning!” he shouted.

Benedict nodded condescendingly. “Yes sir, I understand. Well, I would love to chat with you, but I’m running late on all of the other mail deliveries, so I must get going.”

Mr. Higgins only waved his hand to signal Ben away, and with that Benedict was off to the next house on his bicycle. Off he went, house after house after house, and he only encountered a few that gave him harsh looks because they were expecting their mail. Others were housewives, and they were just glad to get the mail before their husbands returned home.

Benedict had only a couple of more stops left, and this particular piece of mail was going to an old lady by the name of Mrs. Mary Higginbotham. It was a letter from Shaw's Healthcare. He knew Mrs. Mary quite well, and why she needed to be in some retirement home was a mystery to him. She had been very nice over the past year that he’d delivered her mail. She would sometimes ask him to come in, and she would give him a cuppa and biscuits before sending him back on his way. She was a lonely woman, and her husband had died over five years before. Lately, she had only received few pieces of mail and Ben hadn’t seen her, so he rightfully assumed that she was on some sort of vacation.

He parked his bike and strode up to her doorstep. Like always, he used the knocker. There was no answer after the first minute of standing there, so he turned to walk away, but then he heard the sound of a door opening and he turned back around. Standing there was not the usual lightly wrinkled face that usually greeted him with a smile. It was a young woman. She had brown hair that reached just past her shoulders and a delicate face. Her lips curled into a pretty white smile that showed perfect teeth and faint dimples.

The usual deep, business-like voice that could so smoothly persuade buyers in meetings failed Benedict. Instead, a huge lump formed in his throat. She looked so much like her. She was beautiful. It had been quite surprising when Ben had met Helen, his now deceased wife. In fact, it had been miraculous. Who knew that a sorority girl would’ve fallen in love with a business and marketing double major, who wore overly-big glasses, and prided himself on being able to know all of the Star Trek ships by memory.

He attempted to say something, but the words wouldn’t form. So the mystery woman spoke first. “Um, hello there. Did I startle you?”

Her voice was light and soft and it took Benedict a time to recover. “Er, no. I was delivering mail to Ms. Higginbotham. You must be her daughter?” He didn’t really remember her saying anything about any children.

“Oh, no.” She cleared her throat. “My name is Keira Knightley. I just moved in this morning actually. I’m waiting on the rest of my boxes to get here.”

Benedict eyes widened as he said, “What happened to Ms. Higginbotham?”

“My goodness, I don’t know. Well, now that you’ve mentioned it, I do remember the seller saying something towards the fact of the owner passing away. Apparently she didn’t have any family, so it went to the bank.”

The saddened look on Benedict’s face was evident, so Keira added, “I’m mighty sorry for the loss.”

Benedict shook his head, “Oh, she was a good woman. I only saw her when I delivered her mail, but she would invite me in from time to time.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” was all she could say.

Sensing the sad mood that was developing Benedict said, “So, where are you from?”

“Oh, well, I’m from Manchester. My husband died a couple of months ago, and because of the lack of income I was forced to move out of the flat and into this house. It was cheaper than what I first expected, and I was able to pay for it with the money the government gave me.”

“I’m sorry,” Benedict said.

“It was leukemia. We knew he wouldn’t be very long. My daughter took it the hardest.”

Benedict was going to ask about the daughter, but very soon a very shy, young girl around the age of six ran up to her mother’s legs and hid behind them. She was very pretty and the spitting image of her mother. “She’s a doll.”

“Are you going to say hello to the nice man?” Keira asked her. The young girl responded by hiding more behind her legs. “She’s extremely shy,” she chuckled.

“I understand,” Benedict replied. “I must be getting going. I’m extremely late on delivering the other’s mail. It was nice meeting you. Oh, and be sure to forward your mail here.”

“Will do. Thank you very much. Mr.—“

“You can call me Ben. Have a nice day.” He headed back down the small steps and gave one more wave before he got on his bicycle and pedaled away.


End file.
